


Man or Machine?

by Susspencer



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Contemplative Spencer, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susspencer/pseuds/Susspencer
Summary: A contemplative Spencer wonders is he more man or machine these days.





	Man or Machine?

 

 

 

 

Prentiss poked his cheek and said, “He seems so lifelike.”  Just one more in a long line of jokes about how Spencer’s brain made him seem robotic.  His vast knowledge, instead of making him interesting, had the effect of making him a walking computer.  There were always looks, comments, inferences. Just stamp freak on my forehead and move on. When the migraines started, he seriously thought that it was his own brain joining in.  It was complaining at the amount of information that Spencer crammed in there. It was screaming at him to stop. Especially, when the doctor couldn’t find anything wrong. Spencer felt he was going to break.

Although the doctor assured him that this was not a schizophrenic break, how would he ever be sure?  Was he going to become his mother? Or worse like one of the unsubs that they fought? Add to that his mother was now losing her memories and mind?  Who or what would he be without his? The pieces, the layers being pulled away from him, only to reveal every fear.

He was sharp, full of wit and guile against Cat.  As they led her out to the paddy wagon, her fears stopping her.  Spencer had won. He had saved Garcia, his friend and many others.  Yet, again at what cost? How many more parts of him were on the table?  What was keeping him going? The kindness, sweetness, innocence, being pulled away with each case.  With each game he had to win, with his logic, intellect, and knowledge, another chunk was torn.

Inside it became darker and darker.  His friends kept shining their lights, to renew his spirit and be there for him.  He was used to being alone, on his own, carrying the responsibility himself. Each nightmare, each dead teenager, each bullied one, each abuse victim that was swallowed up, he could only empathize and be angry.  The system wasn’t going to change, was is? If he couldn’t save them, no one could. “It was time to win one.” “It doesn’t work that way.” “Maybe it should.”

The bitterness built.  Sadness melted into disgust.  Anger quit being righteous. It just became case after case.  Win or loss, all he could do was trust in what he knew. Statistics, they never lied to him.  Logic, it rarely failed, only when the unsub didn’t use any. Strategy, geo profiles projected where unsubs would strike next, and they were right.  Unfortunately, they didn’t give times, who’s or how’s. There he sat in chair, legs crossed, studying the evidence. Pictures, M.O.s, geo profiles, signatures, victimology, and anything else they had.  His mind going a mile a minute or faster. His fingers flying as they did a ballet of calculations. Off the team went to the location, that he sent them to, after the person he helped them narrow it down to.  Meanwhile at the station, he sat waiting to hear. Was I right? Did they get there in time? Another one saved or Another one gone? Which list does it get marked on? His mind racing through all the possibilities and probabilities while he waited to hear.  Heart rate increasing with each new solution. 

The flight home he would find a bench, sprawl across it, recharge his batteries as it were.  There would be reports to do. Neatly, quickly, properly. Processed, stamped, filed with the UC, before he would go home.  Home, an apartment alone, he would turn the key, walk in, toe off his shoes, drop his messenger bag. He’d close the door behind him.  A few steps in, he fell onto the couch. The tears fell. Tears for people lost. Tears for the parts of him left behind on the case, pieces that he could never replace.  Tears for the innocence that was all but gone. Tears for the world that didn’t know. Tears for the people who would never be the same. Tears for the loneliness and pain.  Tears until he fell asleep.

Sometime in the night, he would awake and move to the bed. He would dread the dreams that would come.  He would hope each night for a dreamless sleep. Memories flooded the dreams making them nightmares. He’d wake, toss and turn, try again, and maybe get a few good hours, before the dawn.   Then, it began again. He arose, got dressed, headed to the door. He picked up his bag, toed on his shoes, and put on his mask to face the day.

“Dr. Spencer Reid, FBI, BAU, can I ask you some questions?”


End file.
